


This Kiss Can Break No Barrier of Bone

by marteenysqueeman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Dock worker Steve, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rich Boy Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7012336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marteenysqueeman/pseuds/marteenysqueeman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Barnes is one of the richest men in Brooklyn. Of the hundreds of men who work for his father, Bucky Barnes cares about only one: Steve Rogers. </p><p>But Bucky and Steve have met before, under less amicable circumstances. Instead of pining for the golden stranger he watches at the docks, Bucky must make amends for a mistake he made as a teenager, all the while grappling his growing feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grass Against The Root Grows Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> For [Megan](https://twitter.com/cavillschris), my best friend, my inspiration and my muse. 
> 
> Inspired by her [tweet](https://twitter.com/cavillschris/status/730343204634152961) about Rich Boy Bucky and Dock Worker Steve.

There’s a distinct chill in the air as Bucky jogs down the steps, folder of paperwork tucked securely under his arm. He buttons his coat up to his chin and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, bracing himself against the frigid chill that seeps into his bones and settles at the base of his spine, as though cold hands massage each of his muscles in turn. He ignores the twinge in his left shoulder, always brought on by the cold New York air. His mother offers him the car one last time, but Bucky insists he needs the exercise and sets off for the docks on foot.

In truth, the showy car makes Bucky uncomfortable. He’s met mothers who only eat every third day to make sure their children don’t go hungry, but are the most generous women you’ll ever meet. He’s seen men and women the same age as him, huddled together in doorways with a scrap of a blanket between them, but who always flash passers-by a smile and a light-hearted jibe. The sleek automobile sends a jolt of guilt through Bucky’s veins whenever he’s in the plush backseat, discomfort manifesting in the pit of his stomach as his father’s driver cuts through the streets, cold and uncaring as they pass the poorer inhabitants of the city.

And so Bucky walks. He waves to Mrs. Williams, the elderly widow who buys the bruised apples from the market every Friday. He grins at the Cooper twins, bundled up in all the warm clothes their mother can afford. He’s painfully aware that little Sally Cooper isn’t wearing a scarf today – must be her brother’s turn to wear the single scarf their mother could afford – so Bucky stops and tucks his scarf around her pale neck, promising to return and play football with her and her brother someday soon.

He weaves through the streets, keeping his head down as he makes his way to the docks, heading straight for his father’s office. He knocks on the door, undoing the buttons of his overcoat and grabbing the file from under his arm. “Father,” He greets as the door opens. “You left these in your office at home.” He explains, handing the folder to his father. He nods to the other man in the room - one of his father’s business associates, he assumes, taking in the open bottle of brandy, despite the early hour. A successful business deal, then. His father thanks him, but pays him little attention besides a dismissive wave. Bucky sighs, slipping his hands back into his pockets and turning on his heel, heading outside into the maze of crates and boxes being unloaded from the ships anchored in his father’s docks.

That chill still lingers in the air, but if the dock workers feel it, they certainly don’t show it. Most of them are stripped to the waist, heaving boxes backwards and forwards as they tease each other and make crude jokes. Bucky’s gaze flicks over them, paying little attention to the men he recognises from the afternoons he spent here in the summer. He heaves himself up onto the nearest crate, huffing and watching the condensation mist his breath. His focus is drawn back to the group of workers when he notices a man he’s never seen before.

He’s tall, wearing nothing but a grubby pair of jeans, his dirt streaked tank tucked in his belt as he heaves the crates, stacking them high. Bucky’s breath catches in his throat as he takes in the other man, the sweat beading on his forehead and running down the line of his spine. His blond hair flops into his eyes whenever he bends over, and he pushes it back every time, combing his fingers through before bending over again only to have it slip out of place. He laughs each time it happens, and even though Bucky’s too far away to hear the noise, he sees how it ripples through the man’s whole body, lights up his face. Bucky bites his lip, unconsciously leaning forward. He catches himself and blushes, glancing around to check none of the other men had noticed.

This isn’t the first time Bucky’s caught his own gaze lingering a little too long on another man. He feels a twist in his gut whenever he realises it happens more often than it should. He stares at the pretty girls he takes dancing, of course he does, but he’s always so easily distracted by the other fellas around them, doesn’t give the dames the attention they deserve. Bucky knows there’s something wrong with him, knows his family expects him to settle down, start a family, take over the business. Bucky wanted that too, when he was fifteen and unknown to the world. Now though, when Bucky thinks of his future, dreams of the life he’ll have, more often than not there’s another man at his side. Now that he knows more of the world, Bucky resents the constraints of society that stop him from loving the people he wants to love. He sighs, his breath puffing out in a cloud as he wraps his overcoat tighter around himself.

He stays there until he starts to shiver, the sight of the sweating men in front of him only making him feel colder. He slides off the crate, weaving his way through the stacks back towards his father’s office, trying hard not to think of dirty blond hair and solid muscle as he walks.

\-----

Bucky finds himself visiting the docks far more frequently in the following weeks, until he’s subconsciously mapped out the tall blond’s working pattern. For a brief moment, Bucky panics, wondering if his father will notice he only every drops by on the days he can catch a glimpse of toned muscle and golden hair. But for every moment of panic, there follows the realisation that Bucky’s father pays so little attention to his only son that Bucky needn’t worry about his father even noticing he’s there, let alone realising that his son’s gaze lingers longer on one of his workers in particular. It used to upset Bucky, the knowledge that his own father had no time for him, but as he wanders through the stacks, Bucky’s grateful that he can visit here as often as he does without his father questioning him.

He climbs up the nearest stack of crates and settles cross legged at the top, shrugging off his overcoat and looking down on the men working below him. He finds his tall blond immediately (Bucky’s not sure when he started to refer to the other man as  _his_ but if he thinks about it for too long his breathing gets laboured and his hands start to shake) and he relaxes slightly, settling in to watch the stranger load and unload boxes.

The physical exertion makes the workers sweat, even more so now that the cold spell is over and the sun beats down on them. Bucky loosens the top two buttons of his shirt and fans himself gently, never taking his eyes of the figures below. He smiles to himself as he sees his blond throw his head back in laughter, even hears the sound carried to him on the breeze. Bucky feels warmth spread through his body – a fondness that he can’t control - starting at his toes, like the first steps of bare feet onto a warm, sandy beach, sinking into the sand slowly as it readjusts around him. Bucky doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he hears the sound again, closer this time. His eyes snap open and his gaze scans the workers, searching desperately for the blond.

“I said,” comes a voice from the base of the stack he’s sitting on, startling him out of his search. “You might wanna move to another stack, we gotta load this one in the next half hour.”

Bucky peers over the edge of the crate he’s sitting on to see the blond looking up at him, hand along his brow to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun. Bucky’s so startled to come face to face with the man he’s been watching for the past six weeks that he scrambles backwards out of view, only to lose his footing and go crashing to the ground.

\-----

“Who’s the kid on the stacks?” Steve asks as casually as he can muster, jerking his head slightly in the direction of the figure perched at the top of a stack of crates nearby.

“Boss’s son,” One of the other workers supplies. “Comes down here some days to watch us work. Maybe the little rich boy gets a kick outta watching others do the labour he’s too rich to bother with.”

There’s a few grumbles of agreement from the other workers. Steve glances over at the figure again as he picks up another crate, carrying it over to the ship they’re loading. “Has he always done it? Surely there’s plenty a rich kid like him could be doing insteada this.” Steve asks, again trying to sound casual. In reality, he’s anything but. This isn’t the first time he’s noticed the young man’s presence, and he can’t shake the feeling that he recognises him from somewhere, though he’s sure they’ve never met in all the time he’s worked at the docks.

“Used ta come visit his Pa when he was a kid,” Dugan supplies. He’s been working there longer than any of them, the only one who can really answer Steve’s question. “The chief’s groomin’ him to take over when he kicks the bucket, no doubt. Never used to come out and watch us before, he only started doing that about six weeks back. Kid’s gonna have to get off his ass soon though, we gotta load that stack he’s nesting on.”

Steve goes quiet for a while, chewing his bottom lip in thought as he brushes his hair from his face and heaves another crate off the ground. Jones cracks a joke and Steve laughs, focusing on his task instead of trying to fathom where he could possibly have met his boss’s son before.

“Hey, Rogers,” Dugan calls over eventually. “Go and ask his highness to shift it, we gotta move those boxes.”

“On it.” Steve nods, straightening up to make his way over to the stack. He stops at the base, looking up and shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. “Mr. Barnes?” He calls out, because Sarah Rogers raised him right. “Mr. Barnes, we gotta load this stack onto the ship.”

The young man at the top of the stack doesn’t answer him, and Steve huffs out a laugh. There’s a sudden movement from the top of the crate as the other man opens his eyes and looks over to the group of men working a little ways off.

“I said,” Steve tries again, a little louder this time. “You might wanna move to another stack, we gotta load this one in the next half hour.”

He honestly doesn’t expect to see his boss’s son come hurtling to the ground.

\-----

Bucky’s tailbone cracks against the concrete of the docks and he lets out a soft whine, screwing his eyes shut as if that might somehow help with the pain.

“Woah there, I didn’t mean to spook you!”

Suddenly, there’s strong hands gripping Bucky’s, hoisting him easily out of the dirt. Bucky’s only vaguely aware of this fact. His gaze stalls on the sharpness of the other man’s nose, the curve of his jawline, the incandescent blue spark in his eyes. He realises too late that the blonde is looking at him expectantly, patiently waiting for the answer to a question Bucky hadn’t heard.

“Uh… What?” Bucky stammers, immediately kicking himself for sounding so helpless and rude.

But the other man isn’t angry. He just chuckles softly, head tilted to one side as he looks at him. “I asked if you’re alright.” He repeats with a smile. “That was quite a fall.”

“I’m fine.” Bucky grumbles, dusting the dirt off his trousers. He’s lying, of course. There’s a jolt of pain up his spine whenever he moves and he’s pretty sure his palm is bleeding, but he’ll never admit that.

“You sure? I ain’t a doctor but that sure look like it hurt.” The blond pushes gently, and Bucky holds back a growl.

“I said I’m fine, you deaf or something?” He snaps, wiping his bloody palm on his black trousers.

“Only in one ear, and only partially.” The other man replies coldly, and immediately Bucky feels like an ass.

“Aw I’m sorry,” Bucky apologises, trying to keep the forlorn whine out of his voice. “That was stupid of me, I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine.”

Bucky sighs and looks up at the other man, unsure of himself now that he’s so close to the object of his obsession for the past few weeks. (Bucky’s man enough to admit it’s an obsession, but he’s been clinging to the hope that it’s a passing infatuation, that someday soon he’ll get bored).

“We’ll be movin’ the crates, so you gotta find somewhere else to sit.”

Bucky nods, trying to think of something, anything to say, but the pain in his back is distracting him and the guilt of his anger towards the blond is weighing on his stomach.

“Well then. If you’re alright, I’d better get back to work.” Bucky watches as he turns and walks away, back towards the other men working further up the dock.

“Wait!” Bucky calls without thinking. “What’s your name?”

“Steve Rogers.” The other man replies without turning around.

Bucky thinks he might throw up.

\-----

It didn’t register immediately, as Steve looked down into stormy grey eyes.

When Barnes snapped at him, however, Steve finally realised where he recognised the boy from. Steve tries not to think of the time when he was far smaller, much weaker and lonelier, but the memory floods back to him unbidden as he walks away from the boss’s son.

_He’s twenty one years old, but he doesn’t look it. He trips as he hurries home, ending up sprawled on the sidewalk with his breath knocked out of him. He takes a second to curse his uncoordinated body, frail and weak legs that only keep him upright half the time. His sketchbook skids across the ground, coming to rest at the feet of a boy much taller and broader than him, despite the fact Steve has at least six years on him._

_“Watch where you’re going, Rogers.” The boy, who can’t be more than fifteen, sneers at him. “Or you might just find yourself walking right into my fist, and you’d only have yourself to blame.”_

_Steve looks up, squinting to identify him in the low light. His vision isn’t great, but he recognises the figure soon enough. “Rumlow.” He greets as he tries to get up off the sidewalk, only to feel himself being shoved down again._

_“Stay in the dirt, Rogers, where you belong.” Rumlow taunts, picking up Steve’s sketchbook and rifling through it._

_Steve won’t ask him to stop. He grits his teeth and gets to his feet, standing his ground in front of the teenager. “Does your momma know you’re out this late?” He asks, body tense. “Must be nearly your bedtime, Rumlow.”_

_“The hell did you say to me, Rogers?” Rumlow growls. “You just never know when to quit, do you?”_

_“Nope.” Steve replies, and Rumlow punches him in the face._

_“You ready to quit yet?”_

_“Nope.” Steve repeats with a grim smile, and he feels a fresh burst of pain blossom against his cheekbone as Rumlow hits him again._

_Steve won’t fight back, he never does with these kids. Because that’s what they are – kids. Steve’s a grown man, despite the fact he doesn’t look like one, and even as he spits blood, he knows he won’t fight back._

_As Steve picks himself off the ground for the third time, wiping the blood from his split lip, he realises that Rumlow is no longer alone. There are two more boys behind him, Steve registers that the one over Rumlow’s left shoulder is the Rollins boy, but he doesn’t recognise the other boy._

_“Look at this boys,” Rumlow sneers, throwing Steve's sketchbook to Rollins. “Little Steve Rogers fancies himself an artist. Let’s see how well he can draw with two black eyes and a broken hand.”_

_Still Steve won’t fight back, won’t hit the teenagers that have cornered him in alleyways all over the city._

_“Hey James, maybe one day your dad’ll be buying Rogers’s artwork to hang on the walls of that big house you got.” Rollins laughs maliciously._

_The other boy, James, snorts and rolls his eyes. “Unlikely. My dad’s barely got time for his family, let alone art, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be buying it off some weedy little street bum.”_

_Rollins tears at the pages in Steve’s sketchbook while Rumlow kicks him in the gut, and they throw the wrecked pages down at Steve’s feet as he bends double and wheezes._

_“Just goes to show…” Steve manages, just as the three boys are walking away from him. “All the money in the world can’t buy class.”_

_Rumlow turns, rolling his sleeves up. “Goddamnit Rogers, just learn when to quit.” He growls, but Rollins grabs his arm._

_“Leave him, Brock. He ain’t worth scuffing your shoes over.”_

_Steve watches the three boys leave, dropping to his knees and starting to gather up the torn pages of his sketchbook._

\-----

Bucky climbs back up the stack to grab his overcoat, shrugging it on and hurrying away from the docks as quickly as he can.  _Steve Rogers._ Bucky finally has a name to put to the face, but he never expected it to be a name he recognised. Bucky remembers the person he’d been five years ago, every piece the entitled rich brat. He remembers a skinny boy with a razor sharp mouth who never fought back. But… There's no way that could be the strong, muscled man that now works for his father.

Bucky mulls everything over on his walk home, hands shoved low in his pockets and his head hung in shame. He can at least say he’d grown up in that time – matured out of his bratty attitude. He can't understand how that tiny, weedy boy with more spirit than Bucky has ever seen had changed so much in five years. He sighs to himself, deciding that he’ll show Steve he’s changed, whatever it takes. There's no chance of them ever being friends after what he’d done, Bucky's sure of it, but he can't stand the thought of Steve thinking that badly of him forever.

“James!” He's greeted, by the two young men who appear seemingly from nowhere and start walking along beside him.

“We’re taking the girls dancing tonight,” Brock Rumlow nudges him. “Dot’s real excited to meet you, so you better show her a good time, you hear me?”

Bucky nods, feeling sick again as he glances between Rumlow and Rollins, the two boys he’s known all his life.

“Why so pale, Barnes,” Rollins teases. “Surely it ain’t been that long since you last romanced a broad. You still in?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles weakly, then again more firmly. “Yeah, I’m still in.”


	2. There is Anguish in Knowing I Cannot Reach You

It’s a few weeks later when Bucky finally decides how he’s going to make it up to Steve. He’s been wracking his brains, wanting something that shows he’s changed, but without being too much. He grabs his wallet, checking he’s got enough money on him before grabbing his coat and heading out into the street.

Twenty minutes later, he’s leaving the store with the parcel hugged tight against his chest, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He grins excitedly to himself, navigating the busy street easily as he hurries in the direction of the docks. He deliberately avoids his father’s office, even though he knows his father wouldn’t pay him a blind bit of notice. He finds the men at the far end of the docks, unloading the first ship of the day. He hangs back, scanning their faces until he finds Steve, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Steve notices he’s there a few minutes later. He’s noticed Bucky every time the youth has hesitated on the outskirts, has forced himself not to roll his eyes whenever he sees him. Today, Steve’s at his wit’s end, so he sets down the crate he’s carrying and runs his hand through his hair, brushing it from his face and heading in Bucky’s direction. He glances over his shoulder at the other men, but none of them have noticed Steve’s departure. Bucky shifts nervously on the spot, still clutching the wrapped parcel in his hands.

“Look-” Bucky starts, looking down at his feet. “I know what I did, and I’m sorry. I- I didn’t realise it was you, honestly, you were…”

“Smaller, I know.” Steve replies tersely.

“Yeah, smaller.” Bucky repeats with a shy smile. “But now that I know… I want to make amends. I was- I was a dumb kid, you know? And I… I wanted to give you this.” He holds out the package, his hands shaking. Steve takes it from him, looking down at the brown paper.

“Geez, you people all try and fix problems the same way, don’t cha?” Steve huffs a laugh when he sees Bucky’s confused expression. “You just throw money at it and hope it goes away.”

“That ain’t- it’s not- I didn’t-” Bucky flounders, cheeks going pink.

“I’m teasin you.” Steve rolls his eyes, tugging at the string on the parcel. He pulls aside the paper, and runs his fingertips over the leather of the sketchbook.

“I… I don’t know if you still draw…” Bucky mumbles, starting to doubt himself. “But I wanna replace the one Brock tore up.”

Bucky’s heart is damn-near beating through his ribs as he chews his bottom lip, waiting for Steve to say something. Anything.

“I can’t take this.” Steve says eventually, handing it back over to Bucky.

“You- you don’t draw anymore?”

“I do, but I still can’t take this. It’s too much.” Steve insists, holding his hands up.

“It’s just a sketchbook, Steve…” Bucky mumbles, holding the package to his chest, feeling the rejection cut through him.

“Yeah,” Steve scoffs. “I could pay my rent for half a year with what this is worth.”

Bucky feels like an ass again. “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t think.” He looks down at his feet again, feeling much younger than he is.

“It’s fine. People with money don’t think about us bums without.” Steve shrugs.

“Please- take the sketchbook though. Even if- I dunno, even if you sell it or something, please take it.” Bucky holds the present out, looking up at Steve expectantly.

Steve hesitates, before finally taking the sketchbook from him. “Thanks.” He mumbles, wrapping it back up in the brown paper and fiddling with the string.

“I just… I wanted to show you I’m different now.” Bucky says softly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I…” He clears his throat, shrugging his shoulders. “I was a kid, and I was dumb. I shoulda been nicer, I shoulda told Brock where to shove it.”

“You were a teenager.” Steve shrugs. “Teenagers do dumb things. Look, I’m grateful for your… apology. But I should get back to work before I get my wages docked. I can’t afford to lose any pay this month.”

“Oh- of course.” Bucky nods, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment.

“See you around, Mr. Barnes.” Steve smiles slightly, before turning around and heading back over to the other men.

“Bucky!” Bucky shouts without thinking. “Call me Bucky.”

\-----

Bucky waits for Steve in the same spot nearly every day he has a shift at the docks. Steve spends his twenty minute lunch break with Bucky. At first it’s awkward as hell, they sit in silence as Steve eats, glancing at each other every so often.

It takes them a week or so to finally start chatting. They’re perched on the edge of a crate, Bucky’s legs swinging slightly from where they don’t quite reach the floor. Steve finishes his food, leaning back on the crate and looking at Bucky. “Why do you care?” He asks, and Bucky frowns.

“What?” He glances over at him, taking another bite of the apple his mother had given him as he left the house that morning.

“You went out and got me a sketchbook to make up for something that happened five years ago, why?” Steve clarifies.

“I felt bad.” Bucky replies, shrugging one shoulder. “I- didn’t like the idea of you thinking badly of me.”

“What’s it matter to you if I don’t like you?” Steve asks with a frown.

“I like you.” Bucky answers honestly. “And you seem like the kinda fella that don’t hate people easily and I don’t want you to hate me.”

Steve’s quiet for a while, lying back on the crate and staring up at the sky. Bucky doesn’t know what Steve’s thinking about, doesn’t know how to ask him. So he just sits in silence beside the blond, swinging his legs and taking another bite out of his apple.

“I kept it.” Steve hums a few minutes later. “The sketchbook. I kept it.”

“Oh.” Bucky replies, trying his best to stifle the grin that threatens to break out. “Draw anything good yet?”

“A few sketches here and there.” Steve half-shrugs. “Gotta find some better inspiration.”

“Try Coney Island.” Bucky says, smiling at him. “My sister loves the Ferris wheel, her room’s plastered with drawings of it.”

“Never been to Coney Island.” Steve hums.

Bucky looks down at him, an expression of shock on his face. “You’ve _never_ been to Coney Island?”

“There’s always somethin that’s more important. Like working so I can eat, or, y’know, payin my rent.”

Bucky knows Steve isn’t bitter, knows Steve isn’t trying to make him feel guilty about their difference in fortune. Bucky still feels a pang in his gut though, a quick wash of shame at how consistently he takes his family’s wealth for granted.

“I’ll take you someday.” He promises, instead of apologising for the thousandth time.

They lapse into a comfortable silence after that, until Steve’s break is over and he has to go back to work. Bucky stands up and shoots Steve a half-wave before heading away from the docks.

\-----

Bucky’s got his arm wrapped around a petite blonde, whisky warming his stomach as they stagger out of the club. The blonde is giggling at some dumb line Bucky’s delivering with as much charm as he can manage.

There’s a brunette at Brock’s side, leaning heavily against him from one too many cocktails. “Hey James, why don’t we take these lovely ladies back to my place and continue the party?” He suggests, grinning at Bucky. Bucky pretends to mull it over for a second before he agrees, pressing a chaste kiss to the blonde’s temple (Stephanie. He thinks that what her name is).

They round the corner, all four of them laughing loudly in their intoxicated state. Bucky’s so busy trying to listen to the story Stephanie is telling him that he doesn’t see the person he bumps into, just rights himself and lets out a breathless laugh. “Sorry, pal.” He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when he finds himself looking into familiar blue eyes.

Steve smiles slightly, giving Bucky a once-over to check he’s alright. “Hitting the bar a little hard tonight?” He mumbles so only Bucky can hear.

Bucky’s about to respond when their private bubble is burst abruptly.

“Hey asshole,” Brock growls. “Watch where you’re going, pal.” He shoves at Steve’s shoulder, and Bucky sucks in a breath. Brock’s cocky when he’s sober, but the alcohol gives him confidence that everyone else knows is misplaced. Steve towers over Rumlow, and the muscles Bucky often catches himself staring at can be seen even through the taught fabric of Steve’s shirt. If this ends in a fight, there’s no way Brock’s winning.

Bucky can see it in Steve’s face – he recognises Brock Rumlow much faster than he’d remembered Bucky.

Suddenly, Steve’s whole body goes tense. The small smile he’d worn as he looked down at Bucky vanishes, replaced by a closed-off look that makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

“Brock, leave it.” Bucky instructs, putting his hand on his friend’s chest. “It’s nothing.”

“It ain’t nothing,” Brock insists. “This asshole walked right into you.”

“We walked into each other, Brock.” Bucky growls through gritted teeth. “Leave it, you’ve had too much booze.”

The blonde – _Stephanie_ , Bucky reminds himself – puts her hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “James, I wanna go home.” She says softly.

Steve’s not said a word, he’s just standing there, tensed as though he’s ready for a fight.

“Come on, Brock. Let’s take the girls home.” Bucky says carefully, keeping his eyes on Rumlow so he doesn’t have to meet Steve’s cold stare. He puts his hand on top of Stephanie’s and squeezes gently. “Help Brock, or he’ll end up falling in the gutter like the chump he is.”

He finally meets Steve’s gaze, waiting for the girls to walk a little ways off with his friend supported between them. “Steve-” he starts, but doesn’t get far.

“I’m such an idiot.” Steve interrupts. “I can’t believe I bought that whole speech about you bein’ sorry for what you did as a dumb kid.”

“I _am_ sorry.” Bucky objects. “I told you, I’m different now.”

“So different you’re still hanging out with Rumlow?” Steve scoffs. “You know what, you don’t gotta explain yourself to me. Ain’t my problem.” He pushes past Bucky, walking off in the opposite direction. “Make sure you’re at least a gentlemen to those dames and get them home safe.” He calls over his shoulder, but his voice is hollow and empty.

“Steve, wait!” Bucky calls after him, but Steve doesn’t stop. Bucky hesitates on the sidewalk, considers running after Steve, but he’s not sure what he’d say. The buzz from the alcohol has worn off, so he heads towards the sound of Brock’s angry rambling.

\-----

Bucky waits nervously in his usual spot the next day, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt as he waits for Steve to take his lunch break. Much to Bucky’s dismay, Steve sits on a crate next to Dugan and breaks out the meagre lunch he’s packed himself, very deliberately not looking at Bucky.

Bucky sighs and turns to head home, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

It goes this way for a few more days. Bucky waits every day, hoping Steve will come over, but the other man resolutely sits with the rest of the workers, his gaze never straying in Bucky’s direction.

It’s on the fifth day that Steve finally gives in and walks over to Bucky. “You don’t give up, do you.” He mumbles to himself, and Bucky knows it’s not a question. He answers anyway, shrugging his shoulders.

“Figured you’d break at some point and come talk to me.”

Steve sighs and puts his hands on his hips, looking out at the ships coming in. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” Bucky admits quietly. “Explain about the other day, y’know?”

Steve doesn’t reply immediately, and it feels like the silence stretches on forever. “I’m listening.” He finally sighs.

Now that Bucky has Steve’s attention though, he’s not sure where to start. “Brock’s my friend.” He sighs.

“Brock’s a jerk.” Steve cuts in. “He was a jerk when he was a teenager, and he’s an even bigger jerk now.”

“I know that.” Bucky snaps. “But we been friends since we were in diapers. My father is friends with his, they kicked around together as kids- we- I can’t- I can’t just abandon him, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” Steve shakes his head, exasperated. “I ain’t got a clue how you can hang around with an asshole like him.”

“You don’t understand,” Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re right, I don’t, and you’re doing a shit job of explainin it to me.”

Bucky huffs, putting his hands on his hips. “I- Look, I’m sorry, alright? I know Brock’s a jerk, and I know you’ve got no reason to listen to me, but I…”

“Why do you care?” Steve asks, reminiscent of one of their earlier conversations.

“Because I don’t want you thinkin badly of me, Steve.” Bucky mumbles, toeing the ground in front of him, hanging his head.

Steve doesn’t say anything, and Bucky doesn’t dare look up at him. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut that gets worse and worse the longer Steve stays silent, and his shoulders sag. He’s not sure why he dislikes the idea, but the thought of Steve hating Bucky sends a jolt of panic down his spine. There’s conflict brewing in Bucky, a desperate need for Steve’s approval but no understanding of why.

He thinks about Steve more often that he’s willing to admit, and the voice in the back of his head that guides his actions is starting to sound less like his mother and more like Steve every day. When Bucky’s alone, staring up at the dark ceiling, kept awake by churning thoughts, he can admit that Steve makes him want to be a better person.

Bucky can’t admit to the warm feeling he gets in his chest at the thought of Steve being proud of him.

Steve finally opens his mouth to speak, but before he manages to say anything, someone interrupts them.

“Rogers! Break was over ten minutes ago. You ain’t getting paid to stand around yapping. In fact, you ain’t getting paid at all today. We don’t tolerate slackers here.”

Steve jumps, swearing under his breath. Guilt shoots through Bucky, knowing Steve can’t afford to have his wages docked. The blond turns and jogs back over to the other men, throwing himself back into his work. Bucky watches for a few moments before putting his hands in his pockets and heading home. He can’t help but feel responsible for Steve’s docked wages.

\-----

“What the heck is this?” Steve frowns, moving his gaze from Bucky to the brown envelope the younger man has just handed him.

“I felt bad.” Bucky shrugs.

“Why, because your daddy’s richer than half of Brooklyn?” Steve laughs. “You starting to redistribute that wealth?”

Bucky’s cheeks colour as the blush rises to them. He runs his hand though his hair and shrugs again. “I meant for yesterday.” He explains. “For gettin’ your pay docked. I know- you said you couldn’t afford to lose any pay so-”

“So you thought you’d treat me like a charity case?” Steve’s gone tense, and his voice is cold. Bucky wants to scream. He and Steve have only just reconciled, and Bucky’s already stuck his foot in his mouth.

“I just thought- I thought- I wanted to help out, make sure you ain’t struggling because of me.” Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders drawn up to his ears. “I wasn’t meant to be- I didn’t wanna- it’s not an insult, Steve-”

“Oh but it really is, Bucky.” Steve’s voice feels like ice down Bucky’s spine, and he suppresses a shiver. “I don’t need you feelin’ sorry for me. I’m a grown man.”

“Steve, just take the money, please. It’s just a day’s wages, it’s not like my family will even notice it’s gone.” He knows the words are a mistake before he’s even finished saying them, and his eyes widen as Steve shoves the envelope at him.

“Keep it. I don’t need your pity, Bucky.” Steve packs up the scraps of his lunch and turns away from Bucky.

“Steve- wait!” Bucky says desperately. “Steve I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you- I ain’t- I didn’t want you to have to- I wanted-” Bucky knows he’s rambling, not saying anything of value, but he’s desperate for Steve to look at him, desperate to wipe the look of hurt and disappointment off the blond’s features.

“Leave it, Bucky.” Steve sighs, but he stops walking away. “I just- It’s easier to forget you’re the boss’s kid when you’re not giving me handouts.” He replies, but there’s no venom in his voice. In all honesty, he sounds exhausted. He turns to face Bucky, hands on his narrow hips. “I just… I like seeing you as my equal. You chuckin’ money at me reminds me that we- we ain’t the same. You’re… better than me.”

Bucky’s heart swells, then shatters the longer Steve talks. “Stevie…” He breathes softly, and Steve finally looks him in the eye. “Steve, you’re the best guy I know.” He takes a step forward, looking up at Steve. “I ain’t better than you. I- you don’t gotta take the money. I’m sorry Steve… I just felt bad but you’re right I shouldn’t be throwin’ money at you like that.”

Steve stares at Bucky, hands still resting on his hips as he sighs softly. “Bucky…”

“No, hear me out Steve-” Bucky insists, holding his hand up to stop Steve. “I just hated the idea of causin’ you trouble. I felt bad because I was the reason you got punished and I wanted to help out- I was stupid, I didn’t think that I might be insulting ya, I shoulda thought. I know I’m a brat, I know I’m lucky and I just wanted at least some of my money to go to someone who actually deserves it. You’re a good guy, Steve. Best fella I know, far better than me. You deserve everythin’ nice and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t struggling this month ‘cause of me.”

He huffs out a defeated sigh and hangs his head.

Steve’s quiet for a while, and as the seconds tick by Bucky gets more and more tense. “Please say something. Even if you’re gonna tell me to beat it, just say something.”

Steve’s hands have moved from his hips to his pockets and he’s looking a little sheepish when Bucky finally works up the nerve to look up at him.

“You’re better than you give yourself credit for, Buck.” He mumbles softly, offering Bucky a small smile.

Before Bucky think of a reply, Steve’s already walking back towards the rest of the dock workers, glancing at Bucky over his shoulder.

\-----

That night, as Bucky lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, the only thing on his mind is the softness of Steve’s voice and the lines around his eyes when he smiles at Bucky. He can’t keep the smile from his own face as he pictures Steve’s here with him, stretched out next to him on the narrow bed. It starts as a warmth in his chest, imagines himself making Steve laugh at a dumb joke. Bucky closes his eyes, heat pooling in his stomach as his mind supplies the memory of Steve, shirtless and sweating in the midday sun.

Bucky shifts his hips slightly, imagining what it would be like to be pinned beneath all that muscle. He ignores the pang in his chest reminding him that he and Steve are just friends, and that their friendship is delicate and breakable, especially now. He ignores the fact Steve has demonstrated no interest in men, ignores the little voice in his head warning him that this is more than a crush.

He ignores that voice a little harder when it pipes up to remind him what could happen if anyone finds out he likes boys as much as he likes girls.

Instead, he takes himself in hand and lets out a soft sound of contentment, pretending his own hand is Steve’s, bigger, stronger, worn with callouses from the heavy lifting he does to earn his way in the world. He tries not to overthink it as he imagines another body on the bed beside him, imagines Steve’s breath caressing his cheek as he encourages him in hushed whispers, telling Bucky how much he wants him.

Bucky gets lost in the fantasy, only just coherent enough to stifle his moans with his free hand.

Bucky comes with Steve name on his lips, and a sinking feeling in his chest.


End file.
